


The Right Words (At The Right Time)

by Sir_Bedevere



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Breaking Up & Making Up, Declarations Of Love, Friends to Lovers, Humor, Idiots in Love, Light Angst, M/M, Post-Canon, Snark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:20:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27083293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sir_Bedevere/pseuds/Sir_Bedevere
Summary: It's December 2019 and Fergus just wants to finish up a rubbish job and get on the plane for his holiday to the Bahamas. He is not happy to see Adam at the launch.Our players, two stubborn dumbasses, who haven't seen each other in five painful years.The play, a love story in 11 scenes.
Relationships: Adam Kenyon/Fergus Williams
Comments: 22
Kudos: 51





	The Right Words (At The Right Time)

**December 2019**

“Oh _bollocks._ ”

“You alright back there, mate?” the taxi driver asks, eying Fergus in the mirror like he might be about to whip out a hammer. 

“Yeah, sorry. Um – can you drive round the block for a bit. Ten minutes?”

The driver shrugs and pulls away from the hotel. It’s no skin off his nose. He’ll get paid. He isn’t the one about to have a heart attack because he just saw someone that he wasn’t expecting.

Fergus rests his forehead against the window and tries to breath deeply. The driver smells of cigarette smoke and Febreze, so all that exercise in futility does is, firstly, makes Fergus want a cigarette and, secondly, almost choke on the chemical scent. Not that dying wouldn’t be a good option. Anything, rather than circle back to the hotel and come face to face with Adam. 

“You sure you’re okay?” the driver asks, as they sit in Friday night traffic. Thank God for Friday night traffic. Fergus curses his own bad luck for having chosen the one taxi in the whole of London driven by a wannabe Jeremy Kyle. He misses drivers that don’t give a shit. He should have booked an Uber.

Well, he’s trapped here now. 

“I just saw someone I wasn’t expecting. I need a minute to think about it.”

The driver nods, and turns in his seat to peer through the glass. He’s not very old. Barely in his thirties. Just out of nappies. Fergus had been that old when he was elected. He probably should have been out with a real job like this bloke. He’d have done less damage, as long as he managed not to run someone off the road. 

What does this kid know about anything? Fuck all, if Fergus’ extensive experience is anything to go by. 

“You can’t run, mate,” the driver says. “Better to face it head on.”

Such sage advice from someone wearing a Space Jam baseball cap. Where was he when Fergus was hiring special advisors?

Suddenly, he needs to get out, before he does something stupid like tell his weirdo more of his woes. Or nick his cigarettes. 

“This will do. I’ll walk back,” he stutters, and shoves forty quid through the glass. It’s too much, like he’s really just paid for fucking therapy. 

If the kid says anything, he doesn’t hear it. 

It’s raining, a light drizzle that would have made him think twice if he’d realised. He dodges under the awning of a shop and looks miserably at the rain, and the street, and the corner. Around that corner is the hotel and in the hotel, presumably at the event, is Adam fucking Kenyon. 

One glimpse of the bastard and it’s like the last five years never happened. 

“Hey! Buy something or get lost.”

Fergus turns to tell the owner of the voice, Shopkeeper of the Year 2019, where to go, and notices that the shop sells cigarettes.

Well, if the last five years never happened…

He buys some Polos too, to cover up the crime.

And then, like a man walking the Green Mile, he turns up his collar and starts towards the hotel. 

Face it head on, said the driver. Well, it would be a car crash either way. Probably best to just get it over with. 

**

**2009**

Reading was not Fergus’ first choice for a night out, but barely anywhere outside of London was, if he was honest. At least they’d started the evening in Gourmet Burger, which was a lot better than stumbling into some greasy kebab shop at two am. A decent burger and basket of onion rings had done wonders for his mood. 

“Come on,” Chris said, clapping his hands. “Cough up. Fergus isn’t paying for anything tonight.”

The guys complained, but took out their wallets, pulling out cash and tossing it haphazardly towards Chris. 

“The whole tab should be on the bastard for pissing off and abandoning us,” Micah said, adding twenty quid to the pile. 

Fergus put his arm around her and kissed the top of her head.

“I’m the VIP here, darling. Don’t forget it.”

Micah wriggled free and whacked him affectionately around the head. At least, he was pretty sure it was affectionate. 

Chris, ever sensible, collected up the cash and went to pay the bill. The manager looked pleased to be getting rid of them. The boys could get a bit rowdy at the end of an exercise weekend, and it being Fergus’ leaving do too – well, it was bound to get out of hand. 

They spilled out onto the pavement, waiting for Chris. Micah sidled up to Fergus’ side, phone in hand. She had that look. 

“So I know this is your night and everything,” she said. “But I’ve been seeing this guy in town and he has the night off, which he never bloody does, so I kind of invited him to come out. With us.”

Fergus had always thought that he was a bit posh – private school, Oxford, Sandhurst for TA officer training. But he’d never been so posh that he called London ‘town’. That was exactly the sort of shit he’d have to hide if he was going to be a Lib Dem. At least have the decency to pretend he didn’t have friends like Micah.

“Whatever, Lizzie Bennett,” he said. “As long as he isn’t a twat.”

“Oh, he’s a twat alright,” Micah laughed, already texting. “But he is fit.”

She gave Fergus a sideways look, and he grinned. His opinion on fit guys was the worst kept secret in the unit, if you asked the right person. 

“Alright,” Chris yelled, emerging from the restaurant. “First stop, Chico’s – alright, Fergus?”

“Yep. Sounds good.”

It was a Sunday evening in Reading, pissing it down with rain, but the town was full of students out for the night, making more of a racket than Fergus and his friends were. Good cover, a bunch of drunk students. 

Halfway through a cocktail pitcher in Chico’s, Micah disappeared and only turned up again as they were all stumbling along to Jewel, Reading’s worst and cheapest club, and the only one likely to let them in the door in the state that most of them were already in. 

“Fergus,” she said, grabbing his arm. “This is Adam.”

Fergus was already on the verge of seeing double. Two pitchers of Long Island Iced Tea had been a terrible idea, except someone else was paying so actually it was brilliant. Still, he stopped and tried to focus on the guy at Micah’s side. 

Christ, he _was_ fit. Micah wasn’t wrong about that. The bloke – Aaron? Adam? – smirked at him. Fergus must have been in a right state. 

“…his leaving do,” Micah was saying. “The prick’s going off to try his luck in politics. The Lib Dems, as if that isn’t a fucking waste of time.”

“Interesting choice.”

He was still smirking, and Fergus felt quite a lot like punching him. Just for fun. 

“Ignore him, Ferg. Adam works for that toilet paper factory, the Mail, so he can’t judge.”

Fergus snorted, and he held out his hand. Adam didn’t hesitate in reaching out and shaking, his hand cold but his grip hard. 

“What seat are you going to run for?” he asked, and Micah rolled her eyes, snagging Adam’s coat and dragging him away, towards the back of the Jewel queue. 

“No politics. Not until I’m under the table.”

As he stood behind them in the queue, watching as Micah pulled Adam’s head down and began snogging him, Fergus took out a cigarette. As he lit it, he noticed that Adam, even in the middle of having his face sucked off, was looking at him. 

**

**December 2019**

If Fergus had his way, he’d never have picked a hotel in Mayfair to host the launch. It doesn’t exactly scream charitable benevolence, to spend an indecent amount of money on what is basically a press launch. But he is only an expert in PR, so what does he know? Apparently not enough to be listened to over this. 

Christ, he can’t wait to be rid of this lot. One evening, gurning away, and then he is shot of them. Onto the next contract, after an extended break in the Bahamas. _He_ is a freelancer. He doesn’t need to worry about anyone watching him and his expenses anymore. 

A few of the rattier photographers are hanging around the bottom of the steps, behaving themselves under the watchful gaze of the doormen. It must be a slow night, if the launch of a charity app is enough of a draw. Fergus breezes past them and up the steps, flashing his invite at the nearest bloke who nods his head and opens the door. 

“Good evening, sir.”

Once inside, Fergus has a quick scout of the foyer. A lot of people milling about, but no Adam, as far as he can see. He’d know if he was in the vicinity. Like a shark smelling the blood in the water. 

He slinks over to the cloakroom and surrenders his coat. Good job he’d gone for the heavy one; his tuxedo jacket is completely dry underneath. Tugging at his cuffs, he turns around and is almost knocked off his feet. 

“Fergus, where the hell have you been?”

“Hello, Laurence,” he says. “Got stuck in traffic.”

“Bullshit. Here.”

Laurence shoves a glass of champagne into his hand and puts an arm around his shoulders. 

“Can’t wait to be shot of this lot,” he says in Fergus’ ear. His breath smells of champagne and whiskey, and his face is warm. He’s been on the free drink for a while already.

“Yeah. I agree. Come on.”

Laurence is another freelancer brought in to work on the app, and Fergus’ only friend in this godforsaken place. If they’re lucky, no one will even speak to them and they can be out by nine o’clock. That’s as long as Laurence doesn’t embarrass himself or Fergus, by getting so drunk that he overshares on his feelings. Best to find a corner and hunker down. Also less chance of seeing Adam that way, too. The place is massive. The odds of running into one another aren’t very good, as long as Fergus keeps his head down. 

He has no idea why Adam is here, and he doesn’t want to know. If he can just keep away from him, he can hold himself together. 

There’s a sit-down meal in the restaurant at half past seven. Fergus checks his watch. Seven. Alright. There’s a couple of armchairs in the corner by the front window, near one of the drinks stations and with a decent view of what’s going on in the foyer. He knows a good vantage point when he sees it; TA training wasn’t for nothing. He drags Laurence over there, swapping his empty glass of champagne for two full ones on the way. 

“Sit down before you fall down, mate,” he says, downing both of the glasses himself as soon as he sits down himself. 

Laurence starts talking as soon as his arse hits the chair. He’s a talker, which isn’t a bad thing. Fergus has been less chatty lately than he used to be, and with Laurence all he has to do is nod occasionally and he’s happy. He’s going on about some book that he’s just started reading when Fergus catches a glimpse of Adam moving briefly into the foyer and then back out again. Looking stunning, obviously, in his tuxedo. 

Fucking _bastard._

**

**2012**

“You know, there’s a name for pervs like you,” Fergus gasped, his back against the changing room wall. “Hitting on blokes at the gym.”

“Shut up,” Adam said, in between biting Fergus’ neck hard enough to bruise. “You’re – the one who’s been watching me.”

“Only because you’ve been - flaunting yourself in those fucking shorts. _Mother Theresa_ would have been watching you.”

Adam growled, the sound going right through Fergus’ nervous system and down to his cock. Which was probably the idea. Not that he thought Adam was doing much thinking. He’d moved on to licking over the bitemarks, his breath hot, and his hands were trying to wind their way into Fergus’ shorts, and he was so frantic that all he was doing was pawing at Fergus’ arse. 

Which wasn’t a bad thing. But it was extremely distracting when one of them needed to be using half a braincell to make sure they weren’t caught at it in the changing room at seven o’clock in the morning. 

“You picked your time,” Fergus said, as Adam succeeded in getting his hands down the back of his shorts. His own hands were roaming over Adam’s back, under his shirt, scratching at the small of his back, and Adam was arching into the touch. God, he was so up for it. Adam was up for it. With him. _Adam_ had made the first move. 

“Can I suck you off?” Adam asked suddenly, his nails digging into Fergus’ arse. “Please.”

He was on his knees before Fergus could reply, tugging his shorts and his pants down in one go. He licked his lips, and looked up, expectant. Fergus could feel his face on fire – a downside of being almost ginger – and he leaned over Adam’s head to slide the changing room lock shut. Like that would make any difference if someone came in. 

“Come on then,” he said, hand in Adam’s hair, conscious of his eyes still on him. “What are you waiting for?”

“You didn’t say yes.”

“For fuck’s sake, Adam, I’m not going to write you an invitation. Yes.”

Fergus couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a blowjob. That was sad. But it probably didn’t matter when _this_ blowjob was coming from Adam Kenyon. And Adam knew what he was doing. Fergus held his head steady, one hand pulling at that grey hair so hard that Adam growled, “Steady.”

Fergus petted him apologetically, his eyes practically rolling back in his head when Adam swallowed him down. His legs gave out and he collapsed onto the shitty changing room seat, arse bare. Probably get some hideous infection like that. Didn’t matter. Adam went with him and didn’t let up, his fingers digging into Fergus’ thighs. 

“I’m gonna – Adam –”

His good etiquette was for nothing. Adam didn’t pull off and swallowed when Fergus came hot and hard into his mouth. Whatever blowjobs he might have had in the past, no one had ever done that. 

Then Adam knelt up between his knees and kissed him, licked the taste of his own come into his mouth. It was fucking disgusting. Fergus sucked on his tongue anyway. 

“Come on,” he said. “Your turn.”

“No,” Adam said. “Too late.”

Then right there, between Fergus’ legs, he reached into his own shorts. Three strokes and he was done, making a tiny noise under his breath as he leaned his forehead against Fergus’ chest. 

The sounds of the changing room and the distant music of the gym started to come back to Fergus, and he heard the shower running. It could just be the drains, or someone could have come in. Lib Dem MP caught in flagrante in public was not going to work out well. 

“Did someone come in?”

“Don’t think so. Help me up.”

“What was that, then?” Fergus asked, his fingers curling around Adam’s wrist and pulling him to his feet. They stood chest to chest, catching their breaths. “You pick your moments.”

“Name me one more memorable first time with anyone that you’ve ever got off with,” Adam yawned, and kissed him on the cheek. “You’ll never fucking forget that, will you?”

**  
 **December 2019**

Laurence is six foot seven, and when someone that big is drunk off his tits, it is quite hard to argue with them. Fergus is not pleased to be finding that out at the very moment he’s trying to read the ridiculously complicated meal seating plan and Laurence is dragging him away. 

“Come on, I already looked. I’m gonna fall down any minute.”

“Get off, you twat,” Fergus says, trying to free himself from the giant hand that has a firm hold on his jacket. 

It’s pointless, like trying to fight with an avalanche. So Fergus goes with him, towards a table in the back. That’s gratitude, shoving your freelancers into the corner. Fergus can’t wait to be shot of this lot. 

He’s so irritated that he doesn’t notice Adam is sat there until he’s practically on top of him. 

“Oh _fuck._ ”

“What?”

But it is too late. They’re at the table. Laurence is collapsing into his seat. Adam is turning to glance at him, familiar smirk in place, and then he’s making eye contact with Fergus. 

And nothing explodes. No one melts. The world does not come to an end, although Fergus still very much wishes that it would. 

They just stare at one another for a second, two seconds, three, and then Adam swallows. 

“Hi Fergus. I – uh – didn’t know you – what are you doing here?”

Adam is never lost for words. 

“I freelanced for this lot,” Fergus says casually, although his stupid heart is racing. That might be the alcohol. Maybe he’s got this after all. “What are you doing here?”

“Press. I – um – work for Channel Four now. The news.”

Fergus nods, and slides into his seat next to Laurence. This is fine. It will be fine. He’s an adult and Adam is allegedly an adult too, and it’s been years. Five years. Five whole fucking years, and not a word. Adam’s out of the game too and Fergus didn’t know. But it’s fine. 

It’s going to be fine. 

Fergus pours himself a glass of wine. 

Adam is sat next to an older woman who wears the same discrete badge that he can now see Adam has attached to his jacket, and she is looking at Fergus with way too much interest. 

“Fergus Williams, right?” she says suddenly. “You used to be at DoSAC?”

“Yes. I was. A long time ago now.”

“What was Peter Mannion like?” she asks. 

Safe ground. That’s safe enough. Maybe she doesn’t even know that Adam used to work there too, or at least doesn’t know it was the same time as Fergus. Bashing Mannion is an old game, and an easy one. So Fergus starts talking. He’s always been good at talking when he’s nervous.

Adam is looking anywhere except at him, his jaw set. He looks miserable. 

Well, good. Fergus shouldn’t be the only one suffering here. 

**

**2013**

Messing about with Adam was easy. 

That’s what Fergus told himself. 

It saved him trying to figure out how Grindr worked. It saved him the bother of going on dates. It saved him having to remember that there were parts of his job that he definitely shouldn’t tell normal people about. 

And Adam was always there too. That helped. It was easy at the end of a shit day to catch Adam’s eye and suggest a pint, or a pizza, or a takeaway to eat watching the football. The hardest part of it all was having to pretend to be interested in the Champions’ League, and that usually wasn’t too much of a problem by the time it got to the second half, because the football was always a pretence and they both knew it. But he couldn’t just invite Adam round, because that would be more than messing around. 

Fergus had once been googling and found the term ‘fuck buddies’. He told Adam and he laughed, but he didn’t correct him or call him an old man, so Fergus counted that as a win. 

The key component of being fuck buddies was that fucking was all it ever was. That’s all Fergus wanted anyway; a relationship would get in the way of – well, it would get in the way. 

And Adam was completely gorgeous, and funny, and most of all, he seemed to like Fergus for who he was, which put him in quite a select group of people which mostly consisted of Fergus’ mum, his oldest mate, Chris, and that one lecturer at university who told Fergus that he could make something of his life If he could only learn to sometimes shut his mouth. 

Adam and Fergus worked well, and they fucked well and it was all completely fine, until the day that Fergus fell in love with the tosser. But it wasn’t his fault. 

Adam wasn’t _supposed_ to care about him, but there he was, on the doorstep, the day that Fergus was dying from flu, and he brought soup and a hot water bottle and a sack full of meds and he stayed there all day to keep him company. At some point in the afternoon, when Fergus woke up from a nap to find a blanket draped over him and a fresh mug of tea being pressed into his hands, he realised that he’d be quite alright if Adam was there forever. 

Fergus should have known that one of them would cock it up. It had been so simple. 

Still, all he had to do was keep his mouth shut, and on the nights that Adam went swanning off to do whatever it was he did that put him in such a good mood the next day, Fergus went home alone and tried not to think about it. 

“I’m thinking about actually taking some holiday this year. Maybe Greece,” Adam said unexpectedly one evening, when they were sat knee to knee watching Juventus trounce Celtic. 

“Yeah? Gonna get the bikini out? Have a Brazilian?”

Adam threw his bottle top at Fergus’ head. It clattered onto the wooden floor. 

“I was going to ask if you wanted to come with me, you prick, but now I’m having second thoughts.”

Fergus’ heart clenched in his chest. Like Adam had reached in and held it tight in his fist. 

“Why would I go on holiday with you?” Fergus asked. 

Adam shrugged and turned back to the TV. Own goal, disallowed. The crowd in uproar. Didn’t matter, Celtic were buggered anyway. 

“Yeah,” Adam murmured. “Good point.”

**

**December 2019**

If the CIA had tried to come up with a torture method more personalised to Fergus than sitting across from Adam at dinner, they’d have fallen short. 

Fergus isn’t sure what he’s eaten. He _does_ know that he’s drunk too much wine and that even Laurence has caught on to something being wrong. He’s giving him the side eye as Fergus passes him his dessert. 

“You’re being really weird, mate,” Laurence says under his breath, sobered up a bit now he has his own dinner and most of Fergus’ in his stomach. 

“I can’t wait to be shot of this lot.” 

Adam has been looking anywhere but at him, hunched over his plate and picking at his own food. Fergus knows this because he’s been staring. Trying to catch his eye, although he isn’t sure why. Just to make sure that it hurts as much as it should when Adam ignores him. 

Adam’s partner has been talking the whole time, white noise that Fergus doesn’t understand a word of, and Adam just nods along to every five minutes, his jaw clenched up. If he was on his feet, Fergus knows that Adam would have his arms tight across his chest, head bowed. He does that when he’s upset about something. And that makes Fergus’ stomach boil, although that might be the wine too. What fucking right does Adam have to look as miserable as he does, anyway? 

Finally, the dinner comes to an end and Fergus lurches to his feet. 

“Where you going, mate?” Laurence asks, quietly. Christ, Fergus must look like shit if a brick wall like Laurence is concerned. 

“Going for a smoke,” Fergus mumbles, finding that his tongue seems to have grown in his mouth. “Don’t fucking follow me.”

He stumbles away from the table, and towards the door. He can feel eyes on him and he hopes that they belong to Laurence. 

He can’t go out of the front door. There’s probably still photographers there, and the last thing he needs is a photo of ex-minister Fergus Williams falling down the steps of some Mayfair hotel, drunk off his tits. He’s enough of a disappointment to his mother as it is. 

Well, there’s always the toilet, if he cracks the window open. 

A waiter directs him to the nearest loo, at the end of a little corridor and around a corner. His cunning window trick isn’t needed as there’s a fire exit next to the men’s. He pushes it open and uses a fire extinguisher to prop it. If he’s caught, he’ll get a right bollocking, but it won’t be anything compared to the feeling of having his balls slowly crushed in the CIA torture scenario he’s just escaped from. 

It’s still raining outside, but the narrow alley he’s come out into is sheltered mostly by the hotel on one side and the theatre on the other, so it isn’t too wet. Then again, if he gets pneumonia and dies, at least he won’t be forced to think evermore about Adam sitting at that table and Not Looking at him. His hands are trembling as he takes the cigarettes from his pocket and lights one up, but it’s fucking cold and he didn’t bring his coat. Maybe that pneumonia isn’t such an impossible dream. 

He hasn’t smoked in five years, and the first taste is the happiest he’s been all night. 

He’s onto his second and feeling a bit more sober, wondering how he can sneak in and get his coat and make a run for it, when the door creaks open behind him. 

“Fuck off, Laurence, I told you not to-”

“Hi Ferg.”

_Christ on a fucking bike._

“What do you want?”

He chucks the cigarette and grinds it pointedly into the ground. It’s a mistake, because now he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He shoves them into his pockets and eventually turns around. 

Adam’s got his arms so tight across his chest that he’s hugging himself. In the light coming though the door, he’s pale, and swaying. Maybe he’s a bit pissed too. 

They stare at each other for way too long, but Fergus doesn’t know what the hell to say, and he isn’t the one who came looking for trouble. If Adam followed him here, then he can say what he needs to say, and then Fergus can go home and drink himself into a coma. He’s going to the Bahamas and maybe he’ll fucking stay there, so far away that he never needs to worry about Adam turning up again. 

Then Adam lurches forwards like he’s been pushed, and he pins Fergus to the wall, and he’s kissing him, the bastard is _kissing him_ like nothing ever happened, and Fergus is kissing him back, because he’s a piece of shit too. 

Adam is clumsy, like he’s forgotten how to do it, and his hands are in Fergus’ hair, pulling it too hard, but Fergus takes a handful of his, a bit longer at the back than it used to be, and tugs it. Adam groans, his tongue in Fergus’ mouth, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t try to stop and Fergus can taste wine and cigarettes, and he can taste betrayal too. 

He shoves Adam away, hard enough to send him stumbling back. 

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he growls. 

“What-”

“You’re off your head,” Fergus says, and he’s sure he sounds hysterical, because God knows he feels like he’s coming apart at the seams. “Five years, Adam, and not a word and now you try this?”

“Ferg-”

“Don’t Ferg me, you twat. Don’t touch me!”

Adam has taken a step back towards him, and his face changes. 

“You didn’t call either, Fergus,” he says, finding his voice. “You’ve been looking at me all night, what the hell was I supposed to think?”

“I wasn’t looking at you,” Fergus yells, although he was, he fucking was. Of course he was. “Just fuck off, Adam, yeah. It’s too late. You missed your chance.”

It’s the worst lie Fergus has ever told. But Christ, it hurts. He feels like all the air has been sucked from his lungs but he needs Adam to leave, because if he doesn’t – Fergus doesn’t know what he’ll do. 

Adam’s jaw sets and his arms come back up. Defence mode engaged. 

And then, without a word, he shoves past Fergus and walks out of the alley. 

**  
 **2014**

The General Election was called, and Fergus started to have what would turn out to be a four month long panic attack. 

He was screwed. He didn’t know what the result of the election would be, but he knew that the coalition was dead and he knew he’d lose his seat. He was so sure of it that he told Adam he was going to resign, just to save the bother of campaigning. 

“Don’t be a moron,” Adam said, stroking his hair. “Winning last time was impossible but you did.”

“That was before the inquiry,” he said miserably. “No one in their right mind would choose me this time.”

“Everyone has skeletons.”

“Not ones that have been all over the front pages of the papers.”

“You’re running,” Adam said, kissing his forehead and easing himself out of bed. Fergus burrowed into the pillows and pulled the duvet over his head. 

“Don’t want to.”

“Tough. If I have to string you up like a puppet and make you dance, I will. You’re too good to give up, Ferg.”

It wasn’t like Adam to be so optimistic, and as the campaign went on, Fergus was a bit swept away with the fact that Adam started staying over more and bringing him breakfast sometimes and by the time May rolled around, he’d almost started to believe that he might be in with a chance after all. At keeping the seat _and_ with Adam. 

“What if I do lose?” Fergus asked, as they took a lunch break on election day and hid in the local with a pint and a bowl of chips. 

“You won’t. I’ve worked too hard.”

“But if I do. Just in case.”

Adam picked up a chip and crunched it thoughtfully. He didn’t each much crap, so he had to be nervous too. 

“If you lose,” he said slowly. “Then we’ll get out together. You and me.”

“Yeah?” Fergus said, a fire alight in his chest. 

“Yeah.”

It was as much of a promise as he was likely to get, and it was enough. 

Then he was trounced, beaten by over five thousand votes, and Fergus would never forget the look on Adam’s face as he conceded to the Tory. 

That look was the start of it all. 

**

**December 2019**

Laurence walks him down the front steps of the hotel, so he doesn’t fall on his head, and helps him to hail a taxi. 

“We’re going for a pint on Sunday,” Laurence says. “And you’re going to tell me what the hell has been up with you tonight.”

Fergus agrees, because he’s pretty sure that he’s never going to answer the phone to Laurence ever again. He’s done with this company and this job and this whole fucking nightmare. 

It’s a long trip out to Highbury in a taxi, even at ten o’clock at night but Fergus can’t even bring himself to dread the fare. All he can think about is Adam, of course. It’s like the last five years haven’t happened. He thought he’d got over it. He was _sure_ that he had. But one evening in his company, and Fergus is back to how he was, that pathetic mess who cried for days when Adam walked away. He can’t even be angry at him, as much as he wants to be. 

All he wants is to have Adam back. 

Which is a problem, because Adam was never _his_ in the first place. Not in the way that Fergus wanted him to be. 

Eventually, in a rainstorm that feels like Shakespeare himself wrote the scene, the taxi pulls up outside his house and Fergus thrusts a few notes through the window to the driver, with a decent tip. The bloke didn’t say a word the whole drive. The absolute perfect cabbie. 

As he walks up the path, sloshing through puddles, a shadow emerges from the back garden. 

“Fergus.”

“Fucking hell, Adam!” he cries, dropping his keys in a puddle. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

Adam bends and picks up the keys, hands them to Fergus. He’s soaked, and shivering violently, and all of the fight goes out of Fergus. 

“What are you doing here, you mad bastard?”

“I came to – apologise. For earlier. I shouldn’t have-”

He’s shaking so much his teeth are chattering. 

“Alright,” Fergus sighs. “Just – come in and get warmed up before you expire in my garden. That’s the last bloody thing I need.”

Adam follows him into the house, silent except for his teeth, and Fergus waves vaguely up the stairs. 

“You know where it all is.”

“Thanks,” Adam mutters, and takes off upstairs. Fergus strips off his coat and goes through to the kitchen. He puts the kettle on and as soon as he hears the shower start, he rushes upstairs and changes into some dry clothes, and back down before Adam can come and find him in the bedroom. Fergus makes tea and listens to the shower running, and then the creak of floorboards as Adam goes to the bedroom. How many times had he stood here, early morning, boiling the kettle and listening to Adam getting ready for the day? Too many to just kick him out without giving him a chance. 

Christ, he’s a pushover. 

He’s sat at the kitchen table, holding his mug between his hands and scrolling mindlessly through Twitter, when Adam comes downstairs. Fergus swallows hard but doesn’t say anything. Adam is wearing a pair of his boxers and a t-shirt, a bit tight across the shoulders. His hair, usually so carefully styled, is stuck up all over his head. He gives a bit of a grin when Fergus nods at his tea; he made it in the Monty Python mug. Adam’s old favourite one. 

“Can’t believe you still have this. Don’t you ever have a clear out?”

“That one survived the purge,” Fergus says lightly. “Might dump it next time though.”

Adam sits down heavily, like he’s knackered. The rain has probably sobered him up, but it’s been a long night. 

“Why are you here, Adam?”

“I said – to apologise for-”

“Yeah, you said that bit.” Fergus can hear himself and he’s snappy, but just because he’s a pushover doesn’t mean he has to be nice about it.

Adam takes a sip of his tea, his knuckles white around the mug. 

“I didn’t know you’d be there tonight,” he says. “If I did, I promise that I wouldn’t have come.”

Fergus nods. 

“Seeing you though. I didn’t – I wasn’t thinking. I was drunk, I didn’t know what I was doing. I’d never do anything – I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Hurt me again, you mean,” Fergus says bitterly, and Adam flushes. 

“Yeah. Yeah, alright. I deserved that one.”

**

**2015**

Fergus had gone mad. That was the only explanation for what was happening right at that moment. 

“I’m sorry, Adam,” he said, laughing. “But it literally sounded like you just said you were going to go and work for Ollie Reeder.”

Adam sighed and stuck his hands in his pockets. They were standing together in the doorway of his flat, and the six pack that Fergus brought from the shop on the corner is in the bag at his feet. He hadn’t even got his coat off. 

“I did say that,” Adam shrugged, looking at the floor. “He called me.”

“And you said yes.”

“Yeah.”

“Ollie Reeder. The bloke who you once called, and I quote ‘the moral black hole of Westminster’?”

“Yes. It’s a good opportunity, Ferg. I can’t turn it down.”

Adam turned on his heel and went through to the lounge, where he collapsed into the armchair. Not the sofa, so that Fergus could sit next to him as usual. Fergus left the beers by the door and marched after him. His heart felt like it would crack out of his chest. 

“Ollie Reeder. Shit Luke Skywalker. A Dementor with an email address. Any of this ringing a bell?”

“I fucking know, Fergus. You don’t need to lecture me about it, alright?”

“What about when you promised we’d get out together? Any of that ringing a bell? You said it about three days ago, so I suppose it’s been a while.”

Adam cringed. 

“I didn’t _promise_ you anything.”

“You said-”

“I know what I said,” Adam yelled, rushing to his feet. “I fucking know what I said, but what else do I have, Fergus? You can do whatever the fuck you want, they’ll be falling over themselves to give you a job. But I gave up journalism for you and now I can’t go back. They didn’t like me much when I was one of them and now I’ve fucked with too many of them and owe too many favours to get back into it.”

Fergus took a step back, his stomach boiling. 

“You didn’t give it up for me, you bastard. You gave it up because you wanted to. Don’t blame me for that.”

“I’ve got _nothing_ , Fergus. You’ve left me with nothing.”

Nothing. 

Adam could be so nasty when he was angry. He didn’t mean it. He surely didn’t mean there was nothing. He couldn’t mean it.

“Was it always just about that then?” Fergus asked. “Fucking me was just part of the job?”

“I didn’t say that-”

“It sounds like it. And now you’re what, going to go and suck off Ollie Reeder whenever he clicks his fingers? I hope you fucking choke on it, Adam.”

“Fergus, just listen, will you?” 

Adam reached out like he was going to touch him, and Fergus stumbled backwards, turning on his heel. 

“Have a nice life, Adam. I’m fucking done with you.” 

He’d pushed him too far. Adam didn’t even follow him into the hall as he yelled after him.

“Fine. Fuck off, then.”

**

**December 2019**

“When did you leave Ollie then?” Fergus asks. Adam shrugs.

“Couple of years ago. Got offered something at Channel Four. I thought – about calling you.”

“Why didn’t you?”

Adam looks up sharply. 

“Probably the same reason you didn’t call me.”

“Fair enough.”

They sit staring into their mugs, and when Fergus glances up again, he catches Adam doing the same thing. Five years hasn’t made much difference to Adam; his hair was always grey, so if it wasn’t for the haggard look of a long day on his face, he’d barely have changed. Fergus has recently started to see his father looking back at him when he braves the mirror; hair receding just enough to notice, a little bit of a beer belly that he can’t seem to shift. He can’t blame Adam for looking. It’s probably a bit of a shock.

“Can I say something, Ferg? Just – get it off my chest and then I’ll leave if you want. Whatever you want.”

“Alright,” Fergus says. His jaw is tight and he has a hot burning in his throat and he thinks he might be about to cry. 

“I – I never meant to upset you like I did,” Adam starts. “And that’s weird because I usually don’t give a toss about upsetting people.”

Fergus chuckles, and there’s the first tear, sliding down his cheek. He keeps his head bowed, but Adam isn’t an idiot. He must know. 

“And I didn’t know it until I lost you but – I was in love with you, Fergus. I was a mess when you walked away and I know it was my fault. But – I don’t like people, generally and people don’t like me. Apart from you. I can get over it if you never love me back but I’d really fucking love it if you could like me again.” 

“Jesus Christ, Adam,” Fergus sobs, his hands covering his face. “I fucking _loved_ you, you twat.”

“Really?”

It’s like Adam has pulled the plug and the water is cascading away, and Fergus would laugh if it wasn’t so fucking tragic. 

“Of course I did. I couldn’t have made it more obvious.”

“Apart from telling me!”

Adam sounds a bit hysterical, and Fergus hears him come to his side and kneel down next to him. 

“Ferg, look at me, please.”

Fergus relents when Adam’s fingers wrap around his wrists and pull his hands away. He’s so close, right there, and his own eyes are bright. 

“Do you mean it? You aren’t just saying it?”

Fergus kisses him, because what else can he do? Adam is and always has been fucked up, emotionally speaking. Christ. Fergus _knew_ that and he still tried to be subtle about it. Of course the moron didn’t understand. 

He curls his fingers around Adam’s ears and holds him steady when he wobbles like he’s going to fall on his arse, locks his knees around him and holds him in place. They both need desperately to brush their teeth and it’s disgusting, and he doesn’t want to stop. 

“Ferg,” Adam gasps, when he has to come up for air. “Is this-”

“This is it. I’m not letting you go again.”

He can’t handle it when Adam starts crying. It’s such a surprise that he stops crying himself, and pulls Adam into a hug, so he can hide his face against Fergus’ neck. Adam clings to him, shivering again, and Fergus pets his hair. 

“Come on.”

He leads him upstairs and finds him a toothbrush, and they brush side by side, making eye contact in the mirror, their hands brushing. The tears haven’t dried on Adam’s face, and Fergus’ eyes are red and they look like shit. 

It’s perfect.

They’re too tired and wrung out to do much once Fergus gets Adam into bed again. Instead, Adam starts off again with the tears as soon as Fergus helps him onto his back and lies on top of him, a solid weight that he hopes is soothing. He brushes gentle fingers over Adam’s hair and his ears, arms bracketing his head protectively.

This is a dream, except in his dream, he never dared to imagine Adam looking at him like that. 

“I’ll let you off for tonight,” Fergus whispers, in between kissing Adam’s neck and face. “But the crying isn’t very sexy. Not doing an awful lot for me.”

Adam laughs wetly, and cuffs him affectionately around the head. 

“Piss off, you bastard.”

Fergus begins to move slowly, grinding against Adam until they’re both hard and Adam is gasping for breath, his tears forgotten. He’s twisting Fergus’ shirt in his fist, so hard it’s going to tear, and trying to buck his hips up, but Fergus is completely in control, and he’s going slow. 

“I love you,” he murmurs in Adam’s ear, as the heat builds between them. 

“Please, Ferg. Please. You’re killing me here.”

“Worth the wait, I promise.”

Eventually, Fergus moves faster, and Adam’s muscles are clenching beneath him, and they both come in their pants like teenagers. Like it’s the first time. 

Which, in a way, Fergus supposes it is. 

Adam lets him strip off his pants for him, and use them to clean him up, and watches, eyes soft, as Fergus does the same to himself before hurling the boxers onto the floor. 

“That was worth the wait,” Adam says, exhausted. “I love you, Fergus Williams.”

Fergus swallows hard and allows Adam to pull him into his arms. 

“You’re mine now, Kenyon.” 

“At fucking last.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the Tracy Chapman song, Baby Can I Hold You.
> 
> Did you know that Fergus was in the Territorial Army? It's on the Wikipedia page so I had to include it. I did way too much research into the TA for what ended up in the story. 
> 
> Reading gets bashed a bit here but it isn't that bad. I made up Chico and the Jewel nightclub.


End file.
